9. Matt
MATT
The Penguins aren’t going to stand a chance this round—unfortunately for them, very fortunate for us. We’re up two to zero in the series. Best of seven wins the round and advances. The loser is eliminated. There’s no reward for anyone but first place. Winning is the only option.
Commotion sounds around me, but I ignore it, as I always do, staying trapped inside my own head during intermission.
I can feel the hunger in my bones, my body fully in tune and focused into the game.
We’re about to head into the third period, and we’re dominating the Penguins four to zero.
I just have to hold them off for one more period.
Glancing around the room, I drink from my bottle, locking eyes with a few of the guys, each offering me a variety of silent praise. A thumbs-up from Larinski. A few nods of approval from Costy and Burnsy.
If there was ever a team or a time for us to succeed, it would be now, and as my heart hammers in my ears and we head out to the ice, I have zero doubts in our ability to deliver.
“Let’s go, Matty,” Kos cheers, patting my shoulder before I skate to my net.
The crowd is feral this time around. I mean, they were last game, too, but this is on an entirely new level. It almost makes my ears ring every now and then. But, God, the energy is unmatched.
Everyone sets up at center ice, and I shake my head forward, my mask perfectly in place, sword and shield at the ready. It’s time for war.
Let’s go, boys.
The ref drops the puck, and the Penguins take possession. Their passes are clean as they work up the ice toward me, breaking into the zone with ease, working our guys like they never have before.
“I’ve got this. I’ve got this. I’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath, my body fluid and in position, ready for whatever’s coming.
Their play is easy enough to read. They’re going to pass it to the left wing and force the center down toward the net, creating chaos, while their other wing gets open.
The left wing passes it to the center, pulling our defense to it.
But he passes it to the other wing, now open and stick at the ready.
He fires as soon as the puck’s in reach, flicking his wrist and sending the puck flying. It hurdles toward me, and I swear I hear the crowd take an audible gasp and hold their breath.
But I saw this coming from a mile away, and with a simple swipe of my glove, I catch the puck and hold it until the ref kills the play. Cheers erupt because of my stop, and my chest flutters with adoration.
Nothing beats playing at home and feeling like the whole world around you has your back. It’s indescribable.
We win the next face-off, getting our groove back that we definitely didn‘t have this last play, and we continue to dominate the zone, most of the remaining third period happening across the ice.
A tripping call on JD puts us on a penalty kill for two minutes. While we’re down a man, we manage to hold the Penguins off from getting a point on the board. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m definitely the reason behind it, stopping a few breakaways one-on-one.
Once the Nighthawks are back at full strength, only twenty seconds remain, and the Penguins don’t put up much of a fight while the clock runs out. The second that buzzer sounds, I scream with excitement, hoping that my dad is watching because I just got a shutout in the damn playoffs.
Spinning around, I grab the crossbar and lift the net off the posts that hold it in place in the ice, and in one swift motion, I pull the crossbar down, sealing the net closed on the ice.
“God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” I whisper to myself.
“Fuck yeah!” someone shouts, and I turn, finding Costy barreling toward me, the rest of the team racing behind him.
They all shout their cheers of victory, praising me endlessly. I can’t possibly imagine what winning the Cup will feel like because right now, I’m on top of the fucking world.
After we get done celebrating on the ice, we make our way to the tunnel. My skates hit the rubber, and I feel a tingle at the back of my neck, like I’m being watched.
Lifting my gaze, I immediately find the source. Two pools of green, like grass on a sunny summer day, where there’s no cares in the world, only possibility have me completely entranced. Her red hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail, letting her stunning face truly shine.
Matt, I scold myself for thinking about her as more than a coach, but it certainly wasn’t the first time, and given the fact that she seems to get more beautiful every time I see her, I doubt it’ll be the last.
Her lips are in a sharp line, but as I get closer, about ten feet between us, they tip up, and she nods with approval.
“You think I did good?” I ask her as I approach, slowing slightly.
Tipping her head side to side, she bluffs before grinning, that smile of hers taking my damn breath away. “Not bad, MacArthur.”
I click my tongue, feeling my cheeks warm with her compliment as I smirk. “Thanks, Coach.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, a myriad of emotion swirling in her eyes—confusion, shock, but eventually acceptance and glee.
She doesn’t say anything else as I keep walking, following the guys to the locker room.
But I keep replaying her voice in my head until the record damn near breaks, her voice distorting slightly in my mind.
I’m aware I have an unhealthy obsession with people’s opinions of me. It’s something I’ve struggled with since I was young. But I have a new obsession too—Shay’s opinion.
I need her to talk hockey to me. The good, the bad. Everything. Shit, she could talk to me about anything, and I’d hang on every word.
What the hell is happening to me?
It’s the high of the win and the shutout—that’s it. I’m on cloud nine right now. It could have been Andy talking to me, and I’d feel the same way.
Doubt it.
Since when did my internal monologue turn against me? It’s aggravating.
Regardless, it doesn’t matter that I’ve had a crush on Shay Rooney since I was in college or that she’s my new goalie coach. Nothing matters but getting to the finals and winning. She’s an athlete, competitive as fuck. I’m sure she feels the exact same way.
The problem with an emotional high is that there’s always a down, and lately, I feel like I’m on a goddamn roller coaster between my dad’s unstable condition and the game. It’s like I’ve got my legs on two rugs and someone’s just pulling at them both.
I haven’t heard from my mom in two days, which is unusual for her, and it only makes me worry like a madman that something’s wrong.
But I’m trying not to be overbearing or a backseat driver to his care.
She’ll call when she has free time. I texted her, saying I missed them and hope everything’s okay.
That’s all I can do. Well, aside from going to my room after practice right now and processing my emotions the only way I know how … out loud.
Some people journal, keeping a running diary of their thoughts and emotions. I sort of do the same, but mine isn’t on paper. It’s on my phone in the form of rambling voice notes. I can’t remember when I started this, but now it’s the only way I can work through my emotions and understand them.
I also use my voice notes as a way to get out pent-up anger, confusion, anything. It’s a flow of my consciousness. No one else ever hears them. They’re sacred. No judgment. No opinions.
Unlocking my phone as I approach the equipment storage room, I open the door, slip inside, and shut it behind me, flicking the lights on afterward. Thankfully, no other star goalies have stolen my sanctuary today.
This room is old equipment, basically a fancy makeshift storage closet, the size of someone’s living room. It has rubber mat floors and high ceilings with soundboards because it used to be a weight room.
The sound of the recording beeps as I hit the red button on my phone, the voice note ready to capture every word.
A sigh pulls all the air from my lungs, and I aimlessly pace around the room, finding that comforting place in my mind that’s formed over time—a safe resting ground for my racing consciousness.
And then I part my lips and let everything flow. It’s not always smooth and concise. It can be chaotic and unexpected, frustrations coming out of me that I didn’t even know I had. But talking it out always helps me get to the bottom of what I’m feeling.
“I’m upset I haven’t heard back from my mom.
I messaged her a couple of days ago and she said she was busy with his appointments and care and would call me today.
Well, now it’s seven p.m., and still no call or response to the text I sent this morning, asking if everything’s okay.
I’m ten minutes from having a wellness check on the both of them if they don’t call me.
How am I not supposed to worry or freak out?
They’re states away from me, and I can’t just pop over and check on them. ”
I take a shaky breath. “My mom sees him every day. The decline isn’t as drastic to her because she’s with him twenty-four/seven.
But when I see him, sometimes days between FaceTimes, I notice the hollowness taking hold in his eyes.
Some days are better than others, and sometimes, it’s like he’s really him again.
He remembers everything and is his normal, jolly self.
But then a light switch goes off in his brain, and he’s gone in the blink of an eye, his memories of the last few years vanquished.
There’ve been a couple of times where I’m talking to him, and he thinks I’m still playing in college even though I’ve been in the league for almost ten years now.